


Learning the Job

by FabulaRasa



Category: DCU (Movies), DCU - Comicverse, DCU Animated
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-05-12
Updated: 2013-05-12
Packaged: 2017-12-11 14:33:38
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,438
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/799791
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/FabulaRasa/pseuds/FabulaRasa
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>So as it turns out, Bruce cooks.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Learning the Job

The dark-haired boy propped his chin on his hands, watching. "Why'd you do that?" he asked.

"What, add the vinegar? Oh, vinegar's an important part of pastry-making. Can't do without that."

The boy tilted his head. "But it's not sweet."

"Indeed it's not, Master Bruce. But often ingredients that aren't sweet by themselves combine with other things to produce a flavor that has more depth than if the whole cake were made of sweet things. Like music. You remember the symphony your parents took you to last week."

"I fell asleep."

Alfred smiled at his surly little audience of one. The rest of the staff was bustling with preparations for the party, but here in this corner of the vast kitchens, he was undisturbed. Bruce perched on his customary stool. "You ought to be getting dressed, Master Bruce," Alfred chided gently. "The first guests will be arriving within the hour."

An aimless foot swung from the stool. "It's stupid."

"Your mother's birthday is stupid?"

"No. But all the people. The party. They're not coming to see me. I don't want to talk to anyone anyway."

"That may well be, but you can't hide here in the kitchens with me like last party. Not on your mother's birthday. You'll want to make her proud, I know you will."

The little boy's scowl showed what he thought of that. "We have a pastry chef," he grumbled. "And a head cook. You're the boss of them. You ought to be telling the other people what to do."

"Ah, is that so." Alfred licked a judicious finger, testing the consistency of the batter. "But how can I give them directions, if I myself don't know what to do? Never give someone else a job you don't know anything about. There's no surer way to spoil a cake—or anything else, for that matter. Hand me one of those eggs over there, I think we need a little more moisture."

Bruce handed him an egg. Alfred tapped it against the side of the bowl, gently opened it, and let the white spill into the bowl. He cupped the yolk, sliding it back and forth between the two halves of the egg shell. "Now you," he said. He watched as Bruce's deft little fingers cracked, spilled, cupped. "Well done," he said. "We'll whip the whites for meringue."

"What does it do?" Bruce asked. 

"What does what do?"

"The vinegar. You said it was important."

Alfred smiled into his batter. He was an odd little boy, not least for his strange verbal tenacity. Someone would drop a stray comment, and Bruce would circle back, pick it up, poke at it, investigate it. Odd too in his solemn little face. Such a feeling of accomplishment it gave Alfred, to coax an occasional laugh from him, but there was never any telling what would amuse the lad. "It is. I use the vinegar to clabber the milk before adding it to the batter, and a touch of vinegar in the frosting will keep it from sugaring."

"What's clabbering?"

"Souring. It's when milk goes a bit thick, before it's all the way to sour. Clabbering milk can help undercut excessive sweetness. If everything you put in your batter is all sweet, then no one can distinguish the separate flavors. You always need something that pulls it back from the edge at the last moment, a hint of something. . . darker, if you will, underneath the sunshine."

He was gifted with one of those rare smiles. Such a beautiful boy when he smiled, with eyes that lit from within. He wasn't an unhappy little bloke; just odd. _His own sort_ , as his gran would have said. "Alfred, that's like a poem."

"The muses lurk in the heart of even a prosaic butler," he said, and lifted Bruce from his stool. "Off you go now. Upstairs and get those clothes on."

"Can't I just stay here with you?" It wasn't a whine, or a plea. Just a question. Alfred bent to him. 

"Tell you what," he said. "For every half an hour you spend at the party and say your how-d'you-dos, you can duck into the kitchens and spend fifteen minutes with me. Do you know how to read the clock?"

"Alfred," he said impatiently. "I'm in second _grade_."

"Just checking. Now get on with you. Come on, off you go." He tweaked the boy's nose, and smiled at his disgruntlement. He watched the little figure—slight for his age—make his way through the bustle of staff at the far end of the kitchens and in the hall. Alfred watched him go, a worried pucker on his brows, until his attention was reclaimed by the exigencies of meringue.

* * *

"And this way, Bruce, you can see the newest phase of Wayne Corp's research and development division, doing what they do best." William Earle gave the boy his widest smile. Through the wide wall of glass, they could see the engineers on the floor below, moving back and forth. Bruce stared, in that unblinking awkward way he had, that made Earle want to shift his feet and check his watch. Teenagers were not a breed he knew anything about to begin with, but this one was especially unpleasant to deal with, the way he would just stare at you. God knew what went on in his head; probably the kid was retarded. 

"What exactly do they do?" 

It was the first question Bruce had asked all afternoon. "They make money," Earle replied, his patience worn thin. He'd been stuck ushering the little fuckwit around all afternoon, and his face hurt from fake grinning. The sooner the chauffeur came to whisk him back to Groton, the better. "Come on, let's go visit the testing floor, that's where the fun really is. Hey, I know what you might like to do. You ever operate a robot? With the wavy arms and everything."

Bruce was walking in the opposite direction from the elevator, down to the stairs that took you right to the R and D floor. "Bruce, testing floor's this way," Earle called, but the boy was already trotting down the stairs. "Jesus H.," he sighed. "Sure, I'll be your goddamn babysitter, it's not like I have anything important to do." 

Down on the floor, Bruce was wandering from table to table, hands thrust in his frayed khakis, tilting his head at things. "This is not the place where we touch stuff, kid," Earle called, but Bruce was actually talking to someone now. "For Christ's sake," he muttered. This annual tour was supposed to begin and end in the executive cafeteria, with maybe a quick stop at the corporate gym and climbing wall. 

"Why don't we let these guys get back to business, Bruce," he said, with a hand on the boy's back as he caught up to him. He felt the little motherfucker actually pull back from the touch. The forced smile was beginning to wear at the edges.

"Actually, I think I want to stay here for a while," Bruce said, and he looked at one of the engineers whose name Earle did not know—not that he knew any of them. "Is this the blueprint you're working on?" he asked, nodding at the monitor. The man was fat and bearded and wearing suspenders, for the love of bleeding fuck. There were going to be some unpleasant conversations about appropriate dress code with R and D's head.

"Yes and no," the guy said, with a scratch of his beard. He clearly had no idea who he was talking to, or much cared. "It's kind of a mess right now, so I'm throwing up all the visuals and seeing if I can get an overlay on it. Wanna come see?"

And the first flicker of something like interest appeared on Bruce's face. "Yeah, can I?" He pulled up a stool. "So, why wouldn't it work to try something like this here?" And with his finger he moved an underlying schematic on the monitor. The fat turd at the desk grinned.

"Yeah, I see why you'd think that. But come here, take a look—see what happens if you do that? Because you've got to compensate for the thrusters. Here, take a look at these formulas. Any of them make sense?"

The kid cocked his head and frowned at them. "I think so," he said. "Okay, I see what you mean."

"Bruce," Earle broke in. "We need to get back up to the executive floors. The board will be waiting to see you, and we've got a lot of other things to look at around here. I know it's pretty exciting," he said, with a toothy smile. 

Bruce and the engineer looked at him with the same expression on their faces. "I'm going to stay here for a bit," Bruce said, like he could just decide what he was going to do, the entitled little piece of shit. 

"Bruce." Earle's teeth were clenched a bit tighter now. "Look. When you grow up and run this company, you'll have plenty of chances to come play down here. For now, let's just try to stick to our schedule, all right?"

"I can't give someone else a job I don't know anything about," Bruce said stubbornly. Earle kicked a stool nearer with an inaudible oath, no longer trying to keep the lines of his face pleasantly arranged. He watched through narrowed eyes as Bruce and the fat engineer talked avidly over the monitor, comprehension (and the day's first animation) dawning on the boy's face. Earle felt a headache begin, somewhere deep in the muscles of his tense neck. This time next year, when the kid came from Groton to tour daddy's company, Earle was going to be in fucking Singapore.

* * *

Clark studied the skillet through narrow eyes. "Okay, I admit it," he said, crossing his arms. "You've surprised me."

Bruce looked up from sprinkling more rosemary. "Why, because I know my way around a kitchen? Hand me that bag over there."

Clark tossed him the baggie and watched him chop the soft sage leaves—crosswise, so as not to damage the flavor. "How long is this going to take? Because I'm getting kind of hungry."

"There are apples over there," Bruce said, assessing the level of balsamic vinegar with a critical gaze. He tested with his finger, licked. "Actual food takes actual time. Not everything edible comes out of a ramen packet."

"Hey, I know how to cook. You think my mom sent me off to college without some decent pie-making skills? I make a mean meatloaf." Bruce's rolled eyes said what he thought of that. "Hey, meatloaf is actual food."

"I'm not disagreeing. Gateau de viande can be very satisfying, provided you're using the right kinds of fat. Duck fat works best. _What_." 

"Nothing," Clark smiled. "Sorry, this is my first exposure to Bruce Wayne in a kitchen, so you're going to have to give me a while to adjust. Mind if I ask where you learned all this?"

"By all this, you mean basic competence in preparing one's own food? If you want to know good food, you can't just eat it in fancy restaurants, you have to learn to make it yourself. Don't go giving other people jobs you don't know anything about."

"So, Alfred, then," said Clark, and Bruce tossed him a quick glance. Most of Bruce's quick glances were unreadable, but Clark was learning to catch some of their syntax, and this one said _I sometimes forget how much you know about me, and that makes me uneasy_.

Bruce poked at the onions in the skillet, testing the stock again. Clark thought for a minute the conversation was over. "Well," Bruce said at last. "I know you might find this hard to believe, but I was a strange child."

Clark didn't laugh. "Okay," he said.

"My favorite place to be was wherever Alfred was. And Alfred was in the kitchen a lot. Alfred was butler, but he liked cooking. And he thought I should know things. So, cooking."

"Engineering you can eat," Clark said with a smile, and as a reward got a spoon lifted to his lips. 

"Try," ordered Bruce, and Clark sipped, swallowed, weighed.

"Good God," he sighed. "That's heavenly."

The quick flicker of pride on Bruce's face caught Clark in the chest. "More," he said, and Bruce dipped the spoon again. This time Clark didn't stop at the spoon, but licked his way up to the wrist holding it. 

"Don't distract the cook," Bruce murmured. Clark flipped his wrist to the inside and kissed the sensitive skin there, laving it. And this was as new as the cooking: a month now of this thing between them, this thing they were not putting words to, but kisses and caresses were for the bedroom, in the dark. Bruce did not invite this sort of thing. On the other hand, he didn't seem to be stopping it either. He was watching Clark's face as intently as he had the onions. Clark released his wrist, with one final kiss to the flat of the palm. Bruce looked at his hand like there was something on it now.

"You could tell me to stop," Clark said. 

"I could at that," acknowledged Bruce. 

"And yet you're not."

"And yet I'm not."

"I'm. . . not sure what we're talking about anymore."

Bruce turned the fire down beneath the onions and the stock, set aside his spoon. "This," he said, "is not something I know very much about."

Clark thought about that. "This as in. . . a relationship with another man? Or this as in, a relationship with someone who knows all parts of your life?"

"No, I really meant this as in, a relationship with someone I'm in love with."

Clark blinked at him, because Christ. _Christ_. There was a reason they said Batman was the bravest member of the League. Clark tried to find the words, but his tongue was frozen solid. He swallowed. "Then," he tried. "Then you should do some research. Learn about it. We should learn."

Bruce nodded thoughtfully, as though Clark had said something profound. "Yes," he agreed. "This is a job I know nothing about. I think I should spend a significant amount of time learning it."

"Years," said Clark.

"Years and years."

Clark leaned in, crushed his mouth to Bruce's. "Love you too, you know I love you," he whispered, in between kisses, but he wasn't sure if he had got the words out whole, or if they were swallowed. Bruce's mouth tasted of sage, of salt, of unknown, hidden things.

**Author's Note:**

> As the ever-vigilant Schemingreader points out, I really should not have cut corners in my explanation of the vinegar. She points out that the real purpose of the vinegar (beyond the poetic light/dark, sour/sweet, yin/yang one I assigned it) is to assist in leavening the cake because of the the acid-base reaction of the sour ingredient. And she rightly points out that some also suggest the clabbered milk helps with softening the crumb of the cake, though we both agree we don't have independent evidence of this. 
> 
> I feel like this story should have Alfred's Sponge Cake recipe attached to it.


End file.
